Restless Spirits Boxset: A Collection of Riveting Haunted House Mysteries

by Skylar Finn

  “Wow,” Jazmin said, unwrapping a chocolate. “I wouldn’t mind sharing this place with a couple of ghosts.”

  “You say that, but wait until they show up,” I warned her.

  “I don’t feel anything.” She explored the room, checking the bathroom and the walk-in closet. I followed her into the kitchen. “Do you feel anything?”

  “Not right now,” I said. “It comes and goes.”

  “Whoa, what’s this?” She pulled out the leather-bound photo journal from the kitchen drawer. “Have you seen this thing?”

  “Yeah, I dripped blood all over it a few days ago.” I patted the stained cover. “See, it’s not only your things that I coat with my DNA.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Good to know. God, look at these pictures. Some of these look really old.”

  “They’re all ruined though,” I said, reaching over Jazmin’s shoulder to point out the burnt edges of a photo. “You can’t see anyone’s faces.”

  She flipped through it anyway, handling the tender pages with a delicate touch. “It’s still pretty cool. There are dates on the back of these. Look, this one is from 1940. I wonder who this belonged to?”

  I wandered over to the balcony door, crossing my arms. I felt chilly and weird. “I wonder how it stayed up here for so long. You’d think one of the maids would have put it in Lost and Found.”

  “Maybe it’s a weird hotel tradition that got lost along the way,” she said. “Like everyone who stayed at the resort left a photo in it? Some of these are newer.”

  “Can you put it away? It gives me the creeps.”

  “You’re the one who spilled blood all over—whoa. Uh, Lucia? You should have a look at this.”

  It was one of the newer photographs from a film camera. The edges of it, like the others, were charred and black, but it was one of the few photos that had survived with its subjects’ faces intact. In it, a familiar brunette woman held a pretty baby with dark curls and blue eyes.

  “No way,” I said. “It can’t be.”

  “Check the back,” Jazmin said.

  I flipped the picture over. There, written in faded blue ink, was Stella and Odette, 1979.

  “No,” I said again. “Are you serious?”

  “You’ve never seen this picture?” Jazmin asked. “I know you said you weren’t pulling my leg, but—”

  “Jazmin, I swear this is the first time I’ve seen it,” I promised. “Where did you find it?”

  “Tucked between the badly burned ones.”

  “The fire,” I muttered. “The one in the old wing. It has to be connected to all of this.” I grabbed the entire photo album and rushed toward the door. Jazmin ran after me, catching up in the hallway.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  I jammed the elevator call button. “To ask Oliver if he knows anything about this.”

  Oliver was nowhere to be found, not in the Eagle’s View, the lobby, or his office. Trey didn’t know where he was, and it seemed inappropriate to go looking for Oliver in his room.

  “Now what?” Jazmin said, holding the photo album off her chest, as if coming into full contact with it might curse her with whatever affliction ailed me and Riley. “Should we wait?”

  The main doors to the lobby swung open, introducing a frigid gust and a swirl of snow from outside as a tall, athletic man with wavy black hair and dark eyes entered. He wore a tailored blue satin suit beneath his floor-length coat, but no tie. The collar of his white dress shirt remained casually unbuttoned, revealing a chiseled collarbone. He carried a gentleman’s walking cane, the staff of which was simple and black, though the handle appeared to be hand-carved from exquisite ebony wood.

  “Evening, ladies,” the man said, dusting snow off the shoulders of his jacket. Behind him, the last bit of sunlight disappeared toward the horizon, and the moon rose in its place. “I’m sorry for the intrusion. Would either of you know where I might be able to find a Mr. Oliver Watson?”

  His princely appearance, a halo of snow glistening on his dark hair like a crown, stunned me into silence. As he approached, I noticed his eyes weren’t brown but the same dark blue as his suit jacket, deep and mysterious like the ocean’s depths. He walked with a slight limp, favoring his right leg, which explained the cane.

  “I’m afraid not,” Jazmin said. “We’ve been looking for him too.”

  “Mm, that’s too bad,” the man mused. “I was rather hoping we could solve this matter quickly.”

  “Who are you?” I asked, more brusquely than I intended. “I’ve been staying at King and Queens for almost a week, and I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Yes, excuse me for my sour introduction.” He swept off his coat, swirled it over his shoulder like a king’s cape, and extended his hand. “I’m Nick Porter.”

  “Oh.”

  His dark eyes twinkled. “You’ve heard of me.”

  “In passing,” I admitted.

  Jazmin shook his hand first. “Are we supposed to have heard of you?”

  “He owns White Oak,” I told her. “The other lodge on the mountain.”

  “That place is beautiful,” she gushed, hanging onto Nick Porter’s hand a little longer than necessary. “I’d love to see it.”

  “I’d love to show it to you,” Nick said. “The more, the merrier. Though your friend here might have heard some rather unsavory details about me, if that look on her face is any indication. I suppose you’ve spoken with Mr. Watson, Miss—?”

  “Star,” I said. “Lucia Star. This is Jazmin. I haven’t heard much about you at all other than something about a stolen ski run?”

  He rapped his cane against the floor as if testing the marble for cracks. “Ah, yes. I’m afraid that was a misunderstanding. You see, for years, King and Queens has stepped over the boundaries of its properties. It’s why none of the previous resorts on this mountain have survived more than a few years each. I’m afraid I had to put my foot down regarding Mr. Watson’s claim on this land. I would like my resort to succeed where the others did not. For it to do so, we must have access to the best runs on the mountain. After all, they belong to us anyway.”

  “You’re here about the runs?” I asked him.

  “Not exactly,” he replied. “I’m here to apologize. Things got out of hand between Mr. Watson and my trail officials the other day. In addition, I’d like to buy King and Queens Ski Lodge and Resort.”

  “You want to what?” I said.

  Nick motioned for Trey to take his coat. The young concierge hurried over to relieve him of it then tripped over the hem as he took it to the coat room.

  “Mr. Watson is out of his depth,” Nick said. “The resort business is changing—one might even say blossoming—but Mr. Watson adheres to the traditional practices of a family establishment, practices that are no longer relevant. The proof is in the pudding, or this lobby. Look around, ladies. It’s peak skiing season. This place should be teeming with guests, but you’re the only ones here.”

  “There was an accident,” I interjected.

  “With Thelma and the ski lift,” he confirmed. “I’m aware, and it is unfortunate, but with the right public relations team, it would not have affected the lodge’s performance. Let me be clear. My intention is not to take King and Queens from Mr. Watson, but to help him rebuild it. He would stay on as a manager, and the resort would still be his.”

  “This resort has been in his family since it was built in the 1930s,” I said. “I don’t think Mr. Watson is going to feel the same way about this as you are.”

  “All the more reason for us to have a face to face discussion,” Nick said. “But it appears I have a wait ahead of me before we can engage in such a conversation. Would you ladies like to join me for dinner at the Eagle’s View? I hear the chef is divine, and I hate to eat alone.”

  “We had a late lunch,” Jazmin said, almost mournfully. Both of us were oddly mesmerized by Nick’s old-fashioned chivalry. I longed to watch this man eat a steak without getting A1 sauce all
over his fancy satin suit.

  He nodded politely. “Some other time then. Perhaps you can make it over to White Oak? I’ll treat you both to lunch and a day at the spa. We have amenities to die for. Our massage therapists are all trained—”

  “Porter!”

  Nick leaned on his cane, his eyes fixed to a spot over my shoulder. “Ah. It appears we’ve been spotted. Good evening, Mr. Watson.”

  Oliver stormed in, fuming, from the hallway to the old wing. He stomped across the lobby and marched right up to Nick. Each of the men’s visages reflected their current luck in the ski lodge business. Where Nick was stately, poised, and polite like a member of the royal family, Oliver was ragged, balding, and red-faced like a member of the royal family’s staff. His shirt was wrinkled and a lace pattern was printed across his cheek as if he’d just woken up from a nap.

  “Good evening?” Oliver demanded. “That’s all you have to say to me? How dare you set foot in my resort after that stunt you pulled!”

  “Mr. Watson, need I remind you that you were the one who attempted to sue me over a perfectly legal transaction,” Nick said, calm and steady. “Had you not disregarded my letters, you might have known that I was well within my bounds to pull the permits on the mountain. It turns out that land was never in King and Queens’s possession in the first place.”

  “You slimy son of a gun,” Oliver growled. “Look at you with your hair products and perfectly tweezed eyebrows. Permits and transactions? Ha! I want you out of my hotel. Now!”

  “I was quite hoping we could sit down to a decent dinner,” Nick said, completely disregarding Oliver’s rejection. “I asked an employee of mine to bring a bottle of scotch if all goes well. It’s quite fine. Irish—”

  “I don’t want your damned scotch. We have perfectly good scotch here.”

  Nick clicked his tongue. “Perfectly good. That’s a no to dinner then as well?”

  “That’s a hell no,” Oliver said. “Get out.”

  “Your concierge has my coat.”

  Oliver glared at Trey, who sprinted into the coat room like the Road Runner with Wile E. Coyote on his tail. When he emerged, he helped Nick into the luscious piece of outerwear and patted him on his broad shoulders.

  “There you go, Mr. Porter,” Trey said, beaming.

  “Thank you, son.”

  “Out,” barked Oliver, and Trey ran for the front desk.

  Nick shook his sleeves so that the suit sat flush beneath his coat. “I guess I’ll be on my way then. Ladies” —he lifted his cane as if in a toast to us— “my offer remains valid. Feel free to drop by White Oak whenever you like. Just tell the front desk you’re friends of Nick Porter, and they’ll get you squared away.”

  “Stop poaching my guests,” said Oliver. “They don’t want to go to White Oak, you damned snake.”

  Nick raised the cane in defeat. “My apologies. Crimson Basin is so beautiful that my only wish is to deliver the best experience possible to those who come to visit it. We’ll talk soon, Oliver? Oh, my—”

  As he pulled open the door, a mound of snow fell into the lobby. In the twenty minutes since Nick had arrived, the storm had kicked it up a notch. The wind howled and the snow came down in a solid white sheet. Jazmin’s Land Rover was already covered in a miniature mountain of the stuff.

  “Well?” Oliver demanded. “What are you waiting for? Off you go.”

  “Oliver,” I said. “You can’t possibly make him walk back in that.”

  “He walked here, didn’t he?”

  Nick prodded the snow bank outside the door with his cane, which sank at least two feet deep. “Not to worry, Miss Star. I can make it back just fine. I do appreciate your concern though.”

  He stepped beyond the doorway and immediately slipped. Jazmin caught his arm and helped him upright. She gave Oliver a look.

  “Mr. Watson,” she said like a school teacher to a kindergartener. “I understand that you and Mr. Porter have disagreed, but this is a matter of human decency. I, for one, won’t stand by and watch as you make a man with a disability walk through this dangerous of a storm.”

  Oliver tossed up his hands. “Fine! Have a drink. Stay the night. But Porter—” He shook a finger at Nick. “I’m watching you.”

  9

  Oliver disappeared for the rest of the evening before we had a chance to ask him about the photo of Stella and Odette, so we returned the leather-bound book to the suite upstairs. With a couple more people at King and Queens—Jazmin and Nick—the resort was less disturbingly vacant. As a matter of fact, as Jazmin and I arrived at the Eagle’s View for a nightcap and to watch the storm rage, I almost felt normal. With Stella’s photo locked in a drawer, an AWOL Riley, and no neck prickling, it was about time for a relaxing evening. When we arrived, Daniel was already—or still—seated at the bar.

  “Pick a table,” I told Jazmin. “I’ll be right back.”

  As she wandered toward our seats from earlier, I straddled the stool at the bar next to Daniel’s. He lifted his glass by way of greeting.

  “Sorry for being rude earlier,” he said. “I’m sure your friend is very nice.”

  “I didn’t come over here to scold you.” I sniffed the clear liquid in his glass. It was water. He cocked an eyebrow. “Just checking. You haven’t been here all afternoon, have you?”

  “No, I also took a nap.”

  “You seemed upset.”

  Daniel speared an olive with a plastic cocktail sword from the bartender’s stash and popped it in his mouth. “Are you my therapist now, Madame Lucia?”

  “And that’s my cue to leave.”

  “Wait!” He spun around to catch my wrist then let go just as quickly. “I’m sorry, okay? That was rude, and I shouldn’t have said it.”

  I crossed my arms. “No, you shouldn’t have. I came over here to see if there was anything I could do to help you, and you snapped at me.”

  He kneaded his forehead like it was a piece of dough he could work the kinks out of. “I’ve argued with my wife—ex-wife—daily for fifteen years. She constantly puts me on edge, and that affects the way I speak to other people. It’s a hard habit to break when you don’t realize you’re doing it.”

  “What did she do that was so horrible?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “She’s not a bad person, and neither am I. We got married too young and tried to make it work for too long. Getting a divorce was the best thing that ever happened to us, but now there’s all this other stuff that comes with it. Lawyers, and money issues, and custody battles. That’s what I’ve been dealing with today. My daughter is around Riley’s age, and I love her to bits, but it’s sure as hell looking like I’m not going to get to see her whenever I want to.”

  “Her mom won’t let you?”

  “Her mom is smart,” Daniel admitted. “And I’m an alcoholic. It doesn’t matter how many years you’ve been sober and in recovery. The label never goes away, and it shouldn’t. You think I sit at this bar every night because I’m confident in my abilities to resist ordering? No, I sit here because all I want is to reach over and grab the biggest bottle of booze from the top shelf and guzzle it like a lost traveler in the desert.”

  “But you haven’t,” I reminded him.

  “Not yet.”

  I took his hand. His skin was dry and rough. Like most men, he was clueless to the importance of moisturizer in warm weather. He looked down at our conjoined fingers. It was a light hold, not tight or desperate. He flexed involuntarily, as if he’d forgotten what it was like to receive such a simple form of affection.

  “Come sit with us,” I said.

  “No, no.” He shook his head. “I’m sure you and your friend have plenty to catch up on. You don’t need me hanging around and dragging the mood down.”

  I looped my arm around his and pulled him off the stool. “You won’t be dragging the mood down unless you intentionally try to drag the mood down. Besides, Jazmin is like a walking beam of sunshine. You couldn’t bring her down if you trie
d.” I piloted him across the room to where Jazmin waited at our table. “Jazmin, Daniel. Daniel, Jazmin. Should we order something chocolate for all of us to share?”

  Daniel politely shook Jazmin’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You as well.” She pushed out the chair across from hers. “Take a seat. Do you like cheesecake?”

  “I love cheesecake.”

  The storm wore on as the three of us shared a trio of cheesecakes. Daniel and Jazmin socialized well together, as if his natural abruptness and her organic sense of peace balanced each other out. As we powered through the last piece of cheesecake, Nick Porter stepped into the lounge, dressed head to toe in King and Queens swag from the gift shop.

  “You’re both here,” he exclaimed at me and Jazmine. He saluted Daniel. “And Detective Hawkins, of course. I’m sorry for all the trouble.”

  Daniel, whose mood had picked up significantly over coffee and dessert, waved off his apology. “It’s all in my job description. And you can call me Daniel.”

  “Then you may call me Nick.”

  “You two already know each other?” Jazmin asked.

  “Yes, I’m afraid Daniel has had the immense pleasure of mediating an argument or two between Mr. Watson and myself,” Nick said.

  Daniel drew out the last empty chair and patted it. “Have a seat, Nick. We’re all here to take a load off. You might as well join us.”

  Nick hesitated. “If the ladies don’t object?”

  “Not at all,” I said at the same time Jazmin shook her head. As Nick beamed and took the offered chair, I added, “Nice sweatshirt.”

  “Do you like it?” He flapped the front of the maroon garment. The King and Queens’s triple crown logo was printed across the chest in bright gold. “I find it quite flattering. The matching sweatpants too. And so comfortable! Shall we order drinks? It’s on me.”

  “Uh—” Daniel said.

  “I’m fine with my decaf,” I said, pouring myself another cup from the carafe. “What about you, Jazmin?”